


Meraki

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dad!Ron, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Couple, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29766759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: (v.) To do something with soul, creativity or love; to put something of yourself into your work.In which Ron finds his calling.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60





	Meraki

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started this fic over a year ago (in the beforetimes!), and had originally planned on posting it for Ron’s 40th birthday. But I think was just too deep into it and simply didn’t feel ready to post, so I took a step back and let it percolate for, well, a year. Now, though, the time feels right to share, and so I dearly hope you all enjoy it.

Ron tugged at the collar of his Auror robes and looked despondently at the stack of paperwork on his desk. He had six raid reports to write up from the past three days alone, not to mention his written testimony for the upcoming hearing of one Julius Rookwood, who - unlike his brother - had evaded capture for the past two and a half years until last week, when he had been caught holding Muggles hostage in his cellar. The elder Rookwood had been among the last of the old Death Eater regime to be rounded up, and Ron had been there when it happened - when the old wizard, grizzled and disheveled, had hurled blood-purist slurs and threats their way. With any luck, he’d be in Azkaban by the end of the week.

And as happy as Ron wanted to feel about this, the sight of the poor Muggles, starved and freezing, was burned into his brain. All he could muster was a sort of quiet weariness about the whole affair.

From a stack in the corner of his desk, Ron picked up an interdepartmental memo, then a quill.

_Hermione-_

_Want to meet me for a coffee in a bit, at that Muggle place on the corner? Just for a half hour or so. I really want to see you._

_Love,_

_Ron_

If ever there was a Ministry-wide audit of interdepartmental memo use, he’d likely be written up. For every one he sent regarding official Auror business, he probably sent five to Hermione.

He folded it into a little plane and sent it whizzing through the air, and to his delight, one came soaring back to him just minutes later.

_Sure, see you in ten (maybe fifteen)._

_Love you._

_H_

Ron smiled and tucked the memo into his drawer. Fifteen minutes for Hermione, when she was trying to pull herself away from work, was typically more like twenty, so he attempted to pass the time by paging dejectedly through the crime scene photos from Julius Rookwood’s underground lair. The young Muggle women he had kidnapped barely looked of age, and Ron winced, rubbing at his forehead.

Screw it. He’d be early.

Upon arriving at the cafe, he found it blessedly quiet. At the counter, he ordered a cappuccino and a cranberry scone for Hermione (since he suspected she’d not eaten lunch), and a tea with a blueberry muffin for himself (though he’d already had lunch). He found a little wooden table near the back, out of earshot of the baristas, and settled in to inundate his tea with milk and sugar. They hadn’t left him enough room to add all the milk he liked - or maybe Hermione was right, and he did use tea as an excuse to drink sugary milk - and he kept having to take little sips from the mug, then add more sugar packets.

Hermione bustled in minutes later, scarf and bushy hair streaming out behind her, and hurried over to him. 

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed when she reached him, bending down to peck his lips. “I was all ready to leave, honestly, but then Kingsley went into the office next to mine and I didn’t want him to know I was going out-“ She dropped into the chair opposite him and gave an exhausted smile. “Anyway. Hi.”

“Hi,” he grinned back. “Here, this is for you.” 

He pushed her cappuccino and scone across the table to her. 

“Oh, you’re sweet,” she said gratefully, hands wrapping around the warm mug as she lifted it to her mouth. “Thank you, I haven’t eaten lunch yet today-“

“Reckoned you hadn’t-“

“Things have just been so hectic.” She broke off a piece of the scone and popped it into her mouth. “How’s your sugary milk?”

“Delicious as usual,” he said firmly. “Thanks for asking.”

She shook her head in mock exasperation and broke off another piece of the scone. Already Ron felt lighter just from seeing her. 

“Not that this isn’t nice and all,” she continued, “but we could have just gone to the Ministry cafe - though sometimes their coffee tastes a bit burnt-“ She dropped her voice- “you’d think using magic to make it, you wouldn’t have any mistakes-“

“No, I know,” he replied. “This isn’t really a conversation I wanted to have in the office though.”

Her face blanched. “Oh, God, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” He grasped her hand across the table and squeezed. “It’s nothing bad, sorry, I just - all right. Do you remember over the summer, when George asked if I’d come work for him?”

Hermione nodded around a sip of her coffee. “Right.”

“I think I might take him up on it,” said Ron, “if his offer still stands. I haven’t talked to him or anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

The quiet pulsed between them as Hermione’s brows knitted together. “Oh,” she said finally. “Really?”

Ron wasn’t sure what sort of reaction he had been expecting - confusion or shock or maybe even happiness - but it wasn’t this. She looked, somehow, forlorn.

“If he’ll have me,” he said, twisting his mug of tea around on its saucer. “It’s great for Harry and all, the Aurors, but you remember the Rookwood thing I told you about - it’s so fucked up, honestly, this is just not a job I can do for the rest of my life.”

“All right,” she nodded, drinking from her mug. “But… but you want to go work for George, then?”

Something uneasy stirred in the pit of Ron’s stomach. “What, you think that’s a bad idea?”

She hesitated, sipping her coffee again. “I don’t have anything against George or his shop-“

“But it’s not as good as being an Auror, is it?” 

Her mouth fell open. “I didn’t say that!”

“Didn’t have to,” he shot back. An odd, shaky feeling came over him. “You just don’t want to tell people that your boyfriend works in a Diagon Alley shop, is that it?”

“No!” she cried, face pinched. “No, that’s not the problem at all, and I can’t believe you’d even think that of me-“

“Then I don’t know what the problem is, because it’s a good job - it isn’t just working the till all day, it’s actually managing the business, and George really needs the help right now.”

She only looked more crestfallen. “So you just… want to go do it because George wants you to?”

He blinked. “ _What?_ ”

“Look,” she said, pressing the heel of her hand briefly against her eye, “we should just talk about this at home tonight, this isn’t - now’s not the time, we’ve both got to go back to work in a few minutes anyway.”

“Then why’d you come and meet me?” 

She softened. “Because you said you wanted to see me. And I wanted to see you too, _and_ I was also a little worried you were going to tell me someone was dying of dragon pox or something.”

“Bet you wish it was that now,” he muttered, shoving a large chunk of blueberry muffin into his mouth. 

“Of course I don’t.”

Ron swallowed, then stood. “C’mon then, you’re right. Let’s just go.”

She remained in her seat. “Ron-"

“It’s fine,” he said, sure she could tell he was lying. “Let’s go.”

They walked in an awkward silence back to the public toilets that served as the Ministry entrance, and Ron’s mood grew darker with every step. Working for George seemed like the logical next step. He had finally done what he had set out to do, when he and Harry had joined the Aurors following the war. They’d rounded up all the Death Eaters that had survived the Battle of Hogwarts. But in doing so, they had witnessed horror after horror after unthinkable horror, and he felt the weight of them pressing him slowly down until everything he did at work required an enormous effort. Why not pivot, then, and do something that was the complete opposite of depressing?

“I really do want to talk about this,” said Hermione as they stood outside the door. “I promise, I won’t stay late tonight.” At his nod, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”

“All right,” he agreed. “See you later.”

He whiled away the remaining hours of the workday by staunchly ignoring the Rookwood case and filling out paperwork on the more mundane tasks he’d been assigned lately: the witch who was hoarding Cornish Pixies; the wizard who kept breaking into homes and blaming it on a malfunction of the Floo Network. Unlike Julius Rookwood, the less disturbing cases didn’t diminish his faith in the good in the world… but they also bored him to bits. The second the clock struck five, he grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair and headed for the Atrium. Long queues had already formed in front of the rows of fireplaces, as usual, and his patience - though he was sure he would still beat Hermione home - dwindled rapidly as he waited his turn.

Once he got home, he thought, he’d start dinner. They needed to do a shop soon, but he thought he could scrounge up some pasta. If they didn’t have any sauce, he could make some, as he was sure they had some fresh tomatoes. And then dessert... the mere thought cheered him up. They had ice cream in the cooling cupboard, and strawberries, plus enough cocoa powder to make a sauce...

The Floo in front of him lit up with green flames as the wizard in front of him departed, and then Ron stepped up to take his turn. 

When he stepped into his own flat, however, he saw Hermione kneeling on the floor, scooping dry cat food into a little ceramic bowl while Crookshanks prowled moodily around her. She had already changed out of her work clothes and was now dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and stretchy black trousers.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said, rising and stepping around the cat to greet him with a kiss.

“And you’re here,” he said, unable to mask his surprise.

“Of course I am. I told you I wouldn’t be staying late, and I meant it.”

He bent and kissed her again. “I’ll be right back, I’ve got to get out of these robes.”

So he retreated to their bedroom to do just that, and when he returned, he found Hermione sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a fleece blanket pulled into her lap. The sound of Crookshanks crunching through his kibble was the only one in the room.

“I’m really sorry about earlier,” she said, beckoning him over to her. “I was really tired and stressed and hungry and I didn’t do a very good job explaining what I was thinking and I’m sorry about that.”

He stopped halfway in his approach to her. “Are you still hungry?”

“What?”

“You’ve barely eaten, right? So we should eat first.”

She looked over at Crookshanks, whose squashed face was still hidden inside his food bowl. “Right.”

In the kitchen, she helped him dice the tomatoes and stew them for the sauce, all the while chattering cheerfully about the progress she was making in her work to establish labor laws for house elves. Her monologue continued even as they boiled the dry noodles and as she chopped up lettuce for a side salad, but Ron did not feel tempted to change the subject. She lit up when she talked about this sort of thing, her words tumbled over themselves, and she was just so happy that it made him happy too. 

“They’re arguing against sick days,” she was saying, twisting a noodle around her fork, “and of course if you’ve got a cold, you can always just take some Pepper-Up and go about your day, but-“ She took a bite and looked down at the streaks of pomodoro on her near-empty plate. “Sorry. I haven’t stopped talking since you got home.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I think I’m nervous,” she confessed with a cringe, and the rawness in her words made Ron’s stomach flip.

“Why?” 

Instantly he could not help imagining his very worst fears; she had wanted to ‘talk’, and he knew it was nonsensical, but what if their meeting in the coffee shop had gotten her questioning things? 

“Because…” Her fork dropped onto her plate with a metallic clang. “Okay, why did you become an Auror in the first place?”

Ron sighed. “Hermione-“

“Just trust me, please. I have a point to all this.”

“I do trust you, but there wasn’t just one reason why I did it.”

“Then what were the reasons?”

“All right, well-“ He started counting on his fingers. “ I didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts… I wanted to finish off the rest of the Death Eaters… it pays well…” He grinned. “And most importantly, you thought I looked good in the uniform.”

“I still think that,” she grinned back, before sobering. “So what if Harry hadn’t joined up too? What if he’d, I don’t know, moved to Wales and become a sheep farmer?”

Ron chuckled. “Why is that his only other career option?”

She ignored him. “Would you still have joined? Honestly?”

“I-“ He mouthed hopelessly, grasping for words. “I can’t picture Harry not being an Auror, so I don’t really know. I s’pose maybe, just because it did seem like the right thing to do after the war, to - to make sure it didn’t happen again.” He cocked his head curiously at her. “You were offered a spot back then too, but you didn’t take it.”

“Right, there were other things that suited me more,” she explained, as though it were that simple. “Look, if you don’t want to be an Auror anymore, I can understand that. It’s a horrible job, you deal with awful things every day and your hours are terrible - selfishly, I would love to have you home every night.“

“And I’d love to _be_ home every night, so it’s settled-“

“But why George? Why the joke shop?”

It seemed, to Ron, quite an odd question. “Why not?”

It was Hermione’s turn to sigh. “That’s exactly the issue.”

“ _What’s_ the issue?” demanded Ron, suddenly exasperated. “I love you, you know, but you always do this, you can never just come out and make your point-“

“I’m getting there, I promise. Just - explain to me why you want to work for George. Why you want to do this specifically.”

He was beginning to think he’d never get around to making that chocolate sauce. “As opposed to what? Being a sheep farmer in Wales?”

“As opposed to anything, really,” said Hermione. “There’s a million things in the world you can do.”

Ron crinkled his nose in disagreement. “I never took the NEWTs, so I actually don’t reckon I can. I’m sorry to be the one to break that to you.”

“Listen, if this is what you want to do, then of course I support you, I don’t want you to keep being an Auror if it makes you unhappy. I just think…” She reached across the little table and clasped her hands around one of his. Her eyes had gone all dark and intense. “You’re so _good,_ Ron.”

Yet another response out of her that he had not been expecting. “I - I’m sorry?”

“No, it’s nothing to be sorry about, you - when people need you, you do whatever it takes. Harry needed you with him in the Aurors so you went, and now George needs you and so you’re going to work with him.”

“Well-“ Ron paused, trying to arrange his scrambled thoughts, “it isn’t just for him - I mean, yeah, he does need the help, but it’s just a good opportunity - plus it’s so different from what I do now.”

“I know,” she conceded. “I just want you to find what _you_ want to do. I want you to love it.”

Ron lifted a casual shoulder. “Maybe I _will_ love it. You never know.”

Encouragingly, Hermione nodded. “Maybe. I mean, I really hope you will.”

“It’s just a job, though. It doesn’t have to be my whole life.” He stood, picking up his empty plate and then hers. “I know that’s not an easy concept for you.”

Playfully she scowled at him, then said, “so when are you going to talk to George?”

Ron placed the dirty plates in the sink and cast a spell at them, then leaned back against the worktop. Nerves fluttered in his stomach. He wondered what he’d say to Robards. To _Harry_. 

“Tonight, I s’pose. After I make us some dessert.”

“Dessert, huh?” Hermione stood as well, her arms slipping loosely around his waist. “What are we having?”

The thought occurred to him once again that he wouldn’t be making the chocolate sauce, but now for a very different reason. “What do you want?”

She rose up on tiptoe to kiss him, and he thought perhaps he’d just speak to George tomorrow.

When he did finally talk to his brother the following day, over frosty pints of beer in the Leaky Cauldron, it took astonishingly little time to cement the details. George would maintain creative control and full ownership. Ron, in turn, would run the business end of things, managing inventory and cash flow and countless other things that Ron figured he would just learn on the job as he went. When the need arose, he would act as manager over the shop’s employees. By the time he left the pub, a slight beer buzz warm in his veins, the sense of relief washing over him was so powerful that it could have brought him to his knees.

When he arrived back at his desk, he penned a very polite letter to Auror Robards to declare his official resignation and thank the department for all it had done for him. Then, his excitement and relief shifting into stress again, he called Harry into his cubicle. As much as he was ready to leave the job, he didn’t relish leaving his best friend.

“Where’ve you been?” asked Harry as he sat down in the chair opposite Ron’s desk. “I tried to find you for lunch.”

“Right, yeah, I went out with George.”

“Oh.” Harry gave a little chuckle. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I couldn’t invite you,” replied Ron. “Erm-“ He scratched anxiously at the back of his head. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

Harry’s face fell. “Oh, God. Who died?”

“No one’s died,” said Ron in alarm. “Why is that your go-to?” When Harry simply gave him a withering look, he went on. “Fair enough. Look, it isn’t a bad thing. Not for me, anyway.”

“So what is it?”

Ron cleared his throat. “I’m giving my notice to Robards later today. I’m leaving.”

To Ron’s shock, Harry simply laughed again. “No, you’re not.”

“I am, actually.”

“This is funny and all, but what’s actually happening?”

“This.” Ron slid his letter across the desk to Harry, who read it with an expression of growing dismay. “I’m going to work for George at the shop.”

Harry looked up, jaw slack. He appeared unable to formulate a coherent thought.

“You know this was always more a you thing than a me thing,” Ron went on. “I’m not like you. This stuff is in your blood, but it isn’t in mine.”

Harry leaned back, slouching in the metal chair, and heaved a great sigh. “I know,” he said glumly. “Just… it’ll be a bit odd, you know? I’ve never done this sort of thing without you.”

“Trust me,” said Ron, “you’ll be just fine.”

It was much easier giving notice to Robards; they discussed logistics for a bit, and then the head Auror wished him well. And as Ron was stepping into the Floo in the atrium, on his way home to Hermione, he felt as though things were shifting and changing in his favor. As though he was on his way to somewhere, even if he couldn’t know what the future held in store. It was something new, at least, and that was the very best part.

•••

Two weeks later, Ron began work with George in earnest. He arrived at the shop bright and early with a travel thermos of milky, sugary tea in hand and a sense of immense gratefulness that he would not have to review any gruesome crime scene photos that day. 

George opened the door seconds later and ushered Ron into the shop. Even without any patrons, the place brimmed with color and energy, and the high-pitched chatter of the Pygmy Puffs permeated the room.

“I’ll have to add your wand to the unlocking charm,” said George as he led Ron behind the till to a small stone expanse on the far wall. He tapped his wand against it, and a small doorway opened up; Ron had to duck to follow George through. “These are the offices,” George continued, gesturing to a door on either side of the narrow hall. “That one was Fred’s - so, er, you can just use my desk. I don’t use it that often, anyway, since I’m usually working on new products.”

George turned the knob of the door on their left, which opened into a small, cluttered office. A wooden desk, its surface stacked high with leather-bound ledgers, sat facing a window that looked out at Diagon Alley. On the walls hung posters of various Quidditch teams, framed family photos, newspaper clippings from the grand opening of the shop in 1996.

“Nice,” said Ron, nodding appreciatively as he took in his new surroundings.

George regarded him skeptically. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. You never saw my desk at the Ministry.”

With a grin, George reached out and grabbed one of the ledgers. “We’d better get started before all the little hellions show up.”

It was dark by the time Ron made it home, his head so stuffed with new information that it almost ached. There was so much he needed to do, so much to learn: he had to work out monthly budgets, learn which suppliers sold which ingredients for Bruise-Removal Paste and Canary Creams and Nosebleed Nougat, memorize the prices of every product so that the customers couldn’t pull any tricks at the till. It felt like too much for his brain to contain.

“You’re back!” Hermione leapt up from the kitchen table and hurried over as he shut the door behind him. “How was it?”

“Good.” He ducked down to kiss her quickly. “Really good. Bloody exhausting, though, I’m knackered-“ He peered over her shoulder, only now noticing the white cardboard containers on the table. “You’ve brought dinner.”

Hermione smiled up at him. “I have. I thought about cooking, but that’s really more your area of expertise.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, as contentment seeped into his bones. Things were good. He had Hermione, and now he had a job that would let him come home to her every night. He would work, and earn his living, and build a life with her. He would be happy this way. 

•••

“Remember last year, on your birthday?” said Ron, crouching down in front of the oven and pulling two piping-hot tins from the rack. “I got called away on that mission-“

“No one held that against you,” laughed Hermione from her perch on the worktop. “It was your job, I wasn’t upset.”

“Still.” He extracted the sponge cake from the tins and eyed them up. They’d risen perfectly, only slightly domed at the top, and he could easily trim that off. “It’s got its perks, working for my brother.”

“So you’re still liking it, then?”

Two months had lapsed since Ron had officially left the Aurors and joined George at the shop. Despite - or maybe because of - the newness of it all, he had taken to the flood of information like a fish to water, and he never thought he would be so glad to work through a stack of ledgers or manage employee schedules. But he felt settled in a way he hadn’t with the Aurors, and anyway, George was family. Supporting the people closest to him was what he’d always been best at anyway. It was, perhaps, why he’d excelled as an Auror despite the darkness and the danger and the spur-of-the-moment missions that had dragged him away from Hermione. 

Ron pulled a long serrated knife from one of the drawers. “Oh, yeah,” he said emphatically as he began to trim the top off one of the cakes. “It’s loads better.”

“Do you think it’s your dream job?”

Ron popped a bit of discarded cake into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, regarding her. “Do dream jobs really even exist?”

“Yes,” Hermione said at once. “I’ve got mine.”

“Have you really?”

She nodded as he set back to work on the cakes. “And Harry has his,” she went on, counting on her fingers, “and so has Ginny, and George. And Charlie, definitely-“

“So you’re telling me I’m the odd one out?” He cast a cooling charm at the sponge cakes, then picked up the bowl of chocolate-hazelnut frosting he’d prepared earlier. “Want to sample?”

“No, I trust you, I’m sure it’s delicious. Not that you have to do any of this for me, it’s only a birthday, everyone has one-“

“I know that.” He scooped up a generous helping of frosting onto a palette knife and began to spread it. “But I want to.”

“It isn’t that strange, you know,” she added. “I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

“I am.” He set down the knife and moved to stand between her legs. He liked it when she sat up on the worktop like this; she was so much closer to his eye level. “I promise you, I’m good.”

“Good.”

“Now let me finish your birthday cake, will you?”

She smiled and kissed him, a hand soft on his chest. “It is nice,” she confessed, “having you here - and not having to worry every time you leave for work.”

“Well, I work with George. I think _some_ worrying is warranted.”

Laughing, she nudged him back to the cake.

He did agree with her, though. It was nice to walk into work and - George’s bizarre inventions and the frenetic energy of the patrons notwithstanding - know what he could expect. As the weeks ebbed into months, then years, he fell into a routine. He knew that on the fifteenth of each month, he had to place the supply orders. Every Monday, he set the employee schedule for the upcoming week. On Saturdays, consistently the busiest day of the week, he helped Verity out on the floor, answering questions and stopping the Decoy Detonators from going off. At the end of the year, he filed the permits to purchase non-tradeable substances. It became easy. Every so often, George would throw him for a loop and need him to place an urgent order for billywig venom, but after life as an Auror, Ron could take those things in stride. 

It felt like he could live his life now. The war would always loom over them to some degree - there was one big, glaring reason why Ron was working at the shop at all - but its shadow had lessened, and light was allowed in now. He no longer had to worry about the darkness lurking in every corner, because it simply wasn’t there anymore.

So he asked Hermione to marry him.

Then two days later - impatient, and disinterested in holding the sort of elaborate ceremony and reception that Ron’s mum would have preferred - they eloped to Gretna Green with Harry and Ginny as their only witnesses. 

Three months thereafter, Hermione was pregnant.

The fact that they hadn’t planned it did nothing to hamper Ron’s stomach-quaking excitement. From the second she had presented him with the positive test, her hands wringing anxiously in front of her, he had let his imagination run rampant. The vignettes running through his head were nothing short of idyllic: sun-soaked afternoons spent teaching a redheaded child to fly a broom; that same child propped in Hermione’s lap, a book open in front of them. He hadn’t even known how badly he had wanted it until it was happening.

“I think,” he said to her one night in early September, as the moonglow cut between the curtains and washed their bedclothes in silver light, “that this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Hermione rolled onto her side to face him. She was only a few weeks along, it was much too soon for his hopes to be this high, but he still felt fit to burst.

“Really?” Her voice, too, was hardly a whisper. “You’re not nervous?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Not yet, anyway. Are you?”

“A bit.” She paused. “More than a bit, actually. It’s a big change.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s good too, though.”

Hermione nodded and inched closer to him, and he couldn’t help placing his palm on her still-flat belly. “It’s good.”

•••

With a groan, Hermione stretched her legs out along the sofa and propped her bare feet on Ron’s lap. “I’m hungry,” she declared, nudging her heel into his thigh.

“All right,” said Ron readily. He had nine months of practice at this under his belt, after all. More than a few times, he had been roused in the middle of the night to whip up a batch of biscuits or a curry. Once, because the nearest shop wouldn’t open for hours, he had actually baked a loaf of cinnamon bread, only to watch his wife devour the entire thing. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hermione placed a hand atop her swollen stomach. “I doubt any food will even fit, I’m about the size of a house. It doesn’t make any sense, you know, I’m supposed to be eating for two and there isn’t any room to _put_ any of it-“

“So, wait,” laughed Ron. “You’re not hungry, then?”

“Of course I am, I’m growing a human being over here,” she snapped. “And I’m achy, and tired, and there’s a baby sitting on my bladder so I have to wee every ten minutes-“ She sighed. “I just want to _have_ the baby already, why is it taking so long?”

Ron set a hand atop her ankle. “There’s still four days left until the due date, and you heard the midwitch, most first babies are born late.”

Hermione scowled. “I would think any child of mine would be punctual.”

“Yeah, but it’s also half-mine, so-“ As her head dropped back against the couch in anguish, Ron hurriedly added, “so really, what do you want? I’ll make it for you.”

“Do we have any more of those scones that you made the other day?”

“Probably, but they’ll have gone stale by now. I can make fresh ones-“

“No, no, the stale ones will do. I only want a little bit - I haven’t got room for much else, anyway.”

Smiling, Ron gently moved her feet from his lap and stood. He found the scones in the kitchen and sampled one for himself, finding that it had indeed gone rather dry and crumbly. But if it would make Hermione happy, in this final homestretch of her pregnancy, he wouldn’t say another word.

Until she bit into it, and immediately grimaced.

“I told you,” he couldn’t help saying. “I’ll make you some fresh ones - I might have to pop out for some butter, though-“

“No.” Her face remained pinched up. “It isn’t that.”

“What? What is it, then?”

She relaxed. “Nothing,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s nothing, but I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

“All right.” Curious, Ron watched as she set the scone on the end table. “Let me know if you want something later.”

About half an hour later, though, her face screwed up again, and her whole body tightened. “Nevermind,” she choked out, “it’s not nothing.”

Ron’s stomach left into his throat. “Is - is it - happening, you think?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

When Rose Granger-Weasley finally entered the world thirty hours later, it was during a late April thunderstorm that threatened to flood half of England. From the second Ron held his squirming, squalling, _perfect_ daughter in his arms, he knew that he would stop at nothing to make her happy and give her the best life she could have. He’d pitch himself off a bridge, and happily, if that was what it took. 

He thought he’d become a father when he found out Hermione was pregnant, but now - with this helpless, beautiful little baby in his arms - was when everything changed.

•••

The Ministry had granted Hermione six months of parental leave; George had simply said to Ron, “take as much time as you need.”

Which had been great at first. The last thing Ron cared to think about, when he had a new baby that woke every hour and only seemed capable of sleep when on someone’s chest, was ordering supplies or taking inventory. It was as if his brain had shoved everything else out, and he now only had the capacity to focus on Rose and Hermione. Everything else seemed trivial, hardly worth his time. He had a child to raise. He needed to make sure his wife was sleeping and eating and not stressing too much when Rose was reluctant to nurse (a lost cause, that last point, but he was going to at least try). What did it matter, really, if the shop ran out of Fanged Frisbees?

Still, they were getting by. Rose was thriving, growing and changing every day, and just as they were settling into a routine, Hogwarts let out for the summer. 

“So when do you need me back?” Ron asked George one Sunday lunch at the Burrow. He picked at the remains of a biscuit with one hand, the other holding his sleeping baby to his chest.

“I told you,” said George around a swig of beer. “It’s up to you.”

“Yeah, but it’s about to be the busy season.”

“I know, and I used to get on just fine without you.”

“Oh, cheers.” Rolling his eyes, Ron popped a bit of biscuit into his mouth. “I’m just saying, if you do need me to come back, we’ve sort of got the hang of things.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” George mused. “We’re running real low on doxy eggs.”

“Don’t you know how to place orders anymore?”

“Not since you went and changed all our suppliers.”

“To _better_ suppliers,” argued Ron, “cheaper suppliers-“

“Yeah, and they all know you and not me. Works best for me anyway, I’m the creative genius behind the operation.” He grinned. “I’m meant to keep an air of mystery.”

“So what you’re saying is, you need me back.”

George shrugged. “All I’m saying is it couldn’t hurt.”

But before Ron could get a definite answer out of him, his mum came along and plucked the baby right off of his chest.

“Oi!” he exclaimed, watching as his mum swept off through the garden with the baby cradled in her arms.

“I do know what I’m doing, you know,” she called back, eyes trained affectionately on Rose. “She’ll be fine without you for a minute or two.”

“No, she won’t!”

It wasn’t until he had his daughter back in his arms that he realized he hadn’t really been joking.

Even so, he had worked for George long enough to know what summers at Wheezes were like. There had been a post-war baby boom, once people finally felt safe, and now all those babies were growing up into children who wanted pet Pygmy Puffs, or hats that made their heads disappear. The place was already prone to mayhem, and it was infinitely worse when understaffed. 

And so, on a sweltering Saturday morning in July, Ron pulled his magenta robes from the laundry and dragged them over his head. It was strange, though, when he regarded himself in the mirror. He had expected to feel like he was slipping back into a second skin, or like a missing piece of himself had come back. But instead, it felt like stepping back into a role that perhaps had once suited him, but no longer did.

He proceeded down the stairs anyway, where the sound of an infant wailing struck his ears. Hermione was seated on the sofa with Rose cradled close against her chest, rocking back and forth to try to soothe her.

“Is she okay?” Ron asked, approaching cautiously.

“She should be.” Hermione sounded on the verge of tears. “She’s eaten, her nappy’s clean, and I’ve winded her, but she doesn’t want to sleep, and - and I’m just a terrible mother who can’t comfort her own baby. It’s fine,” she squeaked. “Just go to work.”

Ron rushed to sit down beside her, brushing a hand over the wispy curls on Rose’s head. “You’re a great mum to her, Hermione-“

“I’m not good at this,” she sniffled. “Not like you are, it’s not - you know what I’m good at?” She blinked, and a tear dribbled down her cheek. “I’m good at drafting legislature, and meeting minutes, and - and schedules-“

She shifted Rose in her arms, but the cries only grew louder.

“Do you want me to stay?” asked Ron. “It’s no problem, I’ll just owl George.”

“No, no, it’s a Saturday, he’ll be swamped-“

“They’ll manage-“

“So will I.“ With the back of her wrist, she swiped under her eyes. “I’ve got three more months of this, I should just get used to taking care of her alone.”

“All right, I’m going to stay,” Ron decided. “It’s just one day, I can stay.”

“But-“

“It’s okay.” Ron reached his hands out, and Hermione carefully placed the baby, who kept wailing, into them. “You need me more than he does right now.”

•••

But Rose grew older. She started sleeping through the night, and everything became more manageable without the fog of exhaustion hanging over them. In October, Hermione returned to work, and Rose went to the Burrow four days a week to be looked after by her grandparents. 

Mondays were Ron’s favorite. He never had weekends off anymore - not with business booming the way it had been over the past few years - but he had Mondays, and he spent them with Rose, taking her to the park or into Muggle London. 

It felt right, dedicating himself so fully to fatherhood. Whenever he was at the shop, he couldn’t help but think that he was spending all of his time with other people’s children, when he could have been with his own. He didn’t feel like Hermione did every morning when she left for work, fulfilled and ambitious and brimming with ideas. Most of the time, he was simply watching the clock, waiting for his moment of freedom.

He was just stepping out of the fireplace and into his parents’ sitting room when his mum hurried over, Rose propped up on her hip. The little girl’s round, bright face lit up at the sight of him, and she instantly began squirming, trying to escape Molly’s grasp.

“Oh, Ron, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Molly, passing the baby to him. “You won’t believe what she’s done just now-”

“What? What do you mean?” 

“Well, she was crawling along the floor, just over there-” Molly pointed to an old armchair near the hearth- “and suddenly she just grabbed onto the chair and stood herself up - you know, you never actually did that yourself, you went right from crawling to running…”

Her words faded from his attention; a feeling like the air being let out of a balloon was slowly coming over him. “She… she stood up?”

“All by herself.”

“She’s never done that before.”

It wasn’t one of those big milestones that everyone talked about. It wasn’t her first steps, her first words, her first ride on a broom or first day of Hogwarts. But he’d still missed it. 

“Well.” Molly gave him a bracing smile. “I’m sure she’ll do it again for you and Hermione at home, she really was so proud of herself.”

Rose’s head dropped onto his shoulder then, and Ron craned his neck to look at her. “I bet she was.”

•••

Hermione fell into the chair beside Ron’s with an air of dejectedness. “I just can’t believe it,” she stated with a shake of her head. “She’s one.”

“I know.” Ron looked across their garden to where Rose, surrounded by her grandparents, was marveling at a plush dragon. “We may as well just pack her up and send her to Hogwarts, ‘cause she’s all grown up.”

“Oh, don’t say that. You’ll probably end up packing yourself up and going with her, then.”

“I don’t think I’d mind a trip up to Hogwarts,” Ron mused. “Might make for a nice change.”

Hermione looked sideways at him, brows raised. “Uh oh.”

“What do you mean, ‘uh oh’?”

“I mean, you’re getting restless again. I can see it.”

“I’m not - I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

“Are you excited to go in to work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Monday, it’s my day off.” He shot her a smile. “So yeah, I am excited.”

“Right, so then Tuesday. Are you excited to go in?”

Ron shrugged. “Is anyone, ever? Aside from you, we can’t count you,” he added. “Because I love you, but you’re not exactly normal.”

“You used to be excited,” she reminded him. “Back when you first started, you were so happy to be there.”

“I was. And I reckon part of that’s because I wanted to be out of the Aurors. It was a bit of an escape, wasn’t it? But I think…” He sighed, frustrated, and reached for his bottle of butterbeer. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? I can’t just bounce from job to job because I’ve got no attention span and I get bored.”

But Hermione’s eyes had taken on a gleam he recognized well from the past sixteen years he had known her - the same one she used to get, during that other lifetime known as their years at Hogwarts, when McGonagall would assign them a particularly lengthy essay. He half-expected her to announce she was off to the library.

Instead, she turned on her chair to face him. “What if you could do anything you wanted?”

“Hermione-“

“No, really. Pretend you have your pick of jobs, anything in the world. Even Muggle things. What would you pick?”

“Well…” It wasn’t like he’d never thought of this before, but any honest answer he could give her seemed like such a distant pipe dream, meant for people without responsibilities like house payments. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“But you’re going to hate my answer.”

She met his gaze head-on. “Try me.”

“Just know that when Rose needs therapy because we started fighting during her first birthday party, that’s on you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron-“

“I wouldn’t do anything,” he stated, watching as Rose toddled on unsteady legs toward a toy broom in the grass. “If I could choose, I wouldn’t have a job, I would just… stay home with Rose. I’d spend my time looking after her.”

Ron had never once voiced this - not so explicitly, anyway - and he could see the words sinking in, the gears spinning madly in Hermione’s brain. 

“Not that I’d actually do that,” he clarified. “So I s’pose I’ll keep thinking on it. Should we do cake and gifts now? She’ll need her nap soon.”

“Yes.” That glow of investigative delight still remained on Hermione’s face. “We should.”

Once the guests had all left, and Rose was safely tucked into bed to sleep off all the sugar her uncles had fed her over the course of the day, Hermione headed directly into her library. After a few moments of rummaging about in her drawers, she emerged with a roll of parchment in her fist.

“Come here,” she said matter-of-factly, beckoning him over to the sofa. “Look at this with me.”

Ron joined her, and peered at the parchment in her hand. It bore the Gringotts emblem, and his stomach sank. “Hermione,” he began, “what I said earlier, about not working - that’s only in like, a fantasy world where we’re billionaires - of course I’m going to have a job-“

“Look,” she interrupted. With a self-inking quill, she circled what Ron felt was a respectable sum of Galleons. “That’s what you make each month.”

His face burned crimson. “I really wasn’t being serious-“

“And this is what I make.” She circled another respectable figure. “And here-“ She pointed the quill at a number at the bottom- “is what we spend.”

“You don’t have to do this-“

“Just listen.” She set the parchment onto the sofa beside her. “We’re not exactly on the verge of bankruptcy here.”

“Right, because I have a job.”

“I think this might be worth considering.”

“No,” said Ron, the exhaustion of the day rapidly eroding his patience, “it’s really not. It’s mad, you should forget I said anything.”

“But we might be able to make it work.”

“That doesn’t mean we should, I-“ He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the room. “Look, I love my parents, but it wasn’t easy growing up the way I did.”

Her brows rose. “If you’re planning on seven children, Ron-“

“I’m not,” he grinned, “but don’t forget that we didn’t even plan the one we’ve got.”

“I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since you brought it up,” she continued. “You were right, she really will never be this little again. It’d be nice if at least one of us could be around for it. Not that your mum’s not great with her,” she hurried to add as Ron chuckled, “but it’d be better if it was you.”

In the end - after several protracted discussions and some very detailed maths - they came to a solution. With George, who grudgingly admitted that Ron was his best employee and he was loathe to see him leave, they struck a compromise. Ron would work every Saturday to balance the books and order inventory, which earned him a small wage to supplement Hermione’s income. The rest of his days would be spent with Rose.

It didn’t sink in, fully, until he woke up on his first Tuesday in months that he didn’t have to work. As Hermione bustled about, readying herself for the day, Ron padded into the nursery and found Rose standing up in her cot. Little fingers gripping the wooden rail, she smiled widely at him as he walked inside. As he reached her, she held her arms up as high as they would go.

“Good morning, Rosie,” he greeted her, lifting her up. “Should we go and see what Mummy wants for breakfast? You can help me cook, how’s that sound?”

“Dada,” came Rose’s happy reply as her head dropped onto his shoulder.

Dropping a kiss on her hair, he smiled to himself and headed down to the kitchen.

•••

Ron had never been so busy, and yet so restless. The addition of baby Hugo to their family - meticulously planned this time, but no less thrilling and daunting in equal measure - meant that once Hermione’s parental leave ended, Ron now had an overactive toddler and an infant in his care. Of course, he loved them. They were the lights of his life, and he would have jumped in front of any curse, walked through fire, adopted an acromantula for them without a moment’s hesitation. But lately, he found himself looking forward to his Saturday mornings at the joke shop more than he had done a year or two ago. It felt like flexing his brain in a way he typically didn’t when he was teaching letters to Rose, or slicing grapes in half for Hugo. And yet when he was actually there, his mind kept wandering - not even to the kids, though he was always thinking about them - but to other things he wished he could be doing. If he was going to be away from his kids, he wanted it to really mean something. 

Still, when Rose’s Little League Quidditch team held a bake sale, he was the first parent to sign up. 

The League had been strategic about it. They had staked out a stretch of pavement along the High Street in Hogsmeade, and scheduled it on the same day as the Hogwarts students’ visit to the village. Along with all the other families, Ron and Hermione set up a little table bearing cupcakes, treacle fudge, macarons, and a little jar for collecting money. Rose stood on a chair beside him, vigilantly overseeing the operation, while Hermione kept two-year-old Hugo occupied with a set of toy hippogriffs.

Ron was used to dealing with hoards of impatient, overeager preteens from his years at the joke shop, but he still found he had underestimated just what a lively business their little stand would do. A queue formed almost immediately and did not relent until the sun began to sink down toward the horizon, and Hugo had fallen asleep on his mother’s lap.

“I knew I should have made more,” said Ron as he surveyed the wreckage of their table. The little jar had filled with silver Sickles after the first hour, and Hermione had needed to conjure three more to contain their earnings. 

Hermione shrugged as she brushed Hugo’s fringe off his forehead. “Everyone else still has plenty left,” she observed. “You’re just popular.”

“Hey!” yelled Rose from her chair to an older couple as they walked by. “Buy cupcakes!”

Ron met Hermione’s eyes and laughed. “Or maybe it’s that.”

“Rosie, sweetheart,” said Hermione, lips pulled into her mouth to compose herself, “it isn’t nice to shout at people.”

Discontent crossing her little face, Rose clambered down to sit on the chair properly. 

“You did great today,” Ron assured her, leaning close so he could speak softly. “See, almost everything’s gone.”

When he redirected his gaze toward the street, two very familiar figures were approaching: their old classmates, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. Between them was a little girl with dark ringlets framing her face. Their daughter Saoirse, Ron recalled, was just a few months older than Rose.

“Please buy a cupcake?” Rose greeted them hopefully, looking to Hermione for approval.

“Good job, sweetie,” said Ron with a grin before standing up to greet Dean and Seamus. Hermione, trapped in her seat by a sleeping child, gave them a friendly wave. “What’re you two doing here?”

“We actually just moved here,” explained Dean. “And… you…?”

“It’s for my Quidditch team,” piped up Rose importantly. “We need new kits.”

“Well,” said Seamus, reaching into his pocket, “anything for Quidditch, right?”

“Oh, take whatever you want,” Ron told them with a wave of his hand. “We’re nearly done here anyway.”

“Where’d you get all this?” asked Dean as Seamus picked up a cupcake and handed it to Saoirse. 

“Ron made it all,” said Hermione with a note of pride in her voice.

“Seriously?” Dean picked up one of the macarons. “You made these?”

“Is that odd?”

“Not at all.” Dean glanced down at Saoirse, who was gleefully licking frosting from her fingers. “It’s really impressive, actually.”

They stayed exchanging pleasantries for the next few minutes while the kids snacked on the remaining pastries, and then Dean and Seamus set off with their daughter down the street. Ron enlisted Rose to help him pack up their table as Hermione went about the tricky task of rising to her feet without waking Hugo.

Seconds later, Dean loped back into view. “Hey,” he greeted Ron breathlessly, hands plunged into his pockets. “Erm - we’ve got a favor to ask you.”

•••

Ron had assumed that his foray into entrepreneurship would start and end with Saoirse Thomas-Finnegan’s fifth birthday cake. He had refused to let Dean and Seamus pay him - they went so far back, he was happy to help them - but then some other partygoers tasted the cake and demanded to know where it was from. 

Soon, the owls were pouring in from every corner of Britain. Weddings. Anniversaries. Christmas pudding, prepared ahead of time and kept fresh under a litany of preservation charms. New Year’s Eve cakes with real, crackling fireworks as decoration. 

“Look at this one,” Hermione said as she read through his stack of requests. “Fifty galleons for a wedding cake! Oh, but they want it decorated with real flowers, that makes sense.”

“Yeah, but that’s easy.” Ron poured treacle tart mixture into miniature crusts. “Have a look at the next one.”

Hermione picked up the parchment, brown eyes flicking back and forth as she read before her jaw went slack. “ _What_?!”

“Yeah,” Ron laughed. “I’m guessing it’s for a hen do.”

“Still.”

Before Ron knew it, his birthday was approaching. Though he’d never been one for making a fuss of his own birthday - the last time he’d gotten his hopes up about it had been his seventeenth, which didn’t end well - he still ended up at the Leaky Cauldron.

Not that he really minded. Lately he felt quite unbothered by the passing of time, the audacity of his children to continue growing notwithstanding. It was quite unlike the knee-weakening relief he had felt upon leaving the Aurors or the contentment he experienced when parenting full-time. Now, the path of his life was lit before him and was happy - really, truly happy - with what he saw coming.

What he hoped he saw coming, anyway. The idea had been percolating in his head for weeks, little bits of things occurring to him as he was in the shower or falling asleep at night, but what he wanted to do would be no small feat. Plus, he only had one chance to get it right; he couldn’t squander it.

“Another round?” asked Harry, sliding out of their booth. 

“Not beers,” George interrupted before Ron had a chance to answer. “Get some shots instead.”

“Wait - no-“ Ron attempted to protest, but it was too late: Harry’s eyes were already alight with mischief, and a second later he had disappeared into the crowd. “What if I actually just wanted a beer?”

George shrugged exaggeratedly. “What if I didn’t want you to quit working for me? You can’t be too picky.”

“It’s been almost four years - and I do still work for you-“

“Five measly hours a week,” scoffed George. “Oh, but speaking of the shop, that reminds me-“

“Tell me tomorrow,” Ron dismissed him with an airy wave of his hand. Slowly but surely, the beers were working their way into his bloodstream, and he felt loose and warm and relaxed. “I’m off the clock.”

Harry returned, bearing shot glasses brimming with smoky amber liquid, and dropped back down into the booth.

“Here.” Ron slid a shot glass over to George, causing liquid to slosh out. “You’re the one who wanted these.”

George ignored it. “You know, the premises next to mine - number ninety-one - their lease is up in a couple months.”

“Wait, really? The tea shop lady?”

“She’s getting old,” said George simply. “She must want to retire.”

“Oi!” interjected Harry, tapping a hand on the table next to the array of shot glasses. “You asked for these, remember?”

“I actually didn’t,” said Ron. “So who’s moving in there, then?”

“Oh, no, no,” George chided. “ _You’re_ not on the clock, _you’re_ not working - you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. Bet you’re not liking this taste of your own medicine, are you?”

“What, is Zonko’s reopening or something? Is it competition?”

George picked up his shot glass and rolled it back and forth between his thumb and fingers. “Nothing like that. They actually can’t find anyone, they’re all worried I’m going to have some sort of mishap and blow them up in the process. I’ve tried to explain that my invention room’s solid stone, nothing’s getting out, but-“

“And you don’t want to expand?”

“I thought about it, but I’d rather open a Hogsmeade branch. Fred always wanted to, but, well.” He tossed the Firewhisky into the back of his throat. “Just funny, because little old Mrs. Fitzpatrick was never worried about us...”

Ron stopped listening. Clarity was sweeping over him, and all the little bits of ideas in his mind were starting to fit themselves together. It was like he’d downed a sobering potion and a gallon of coffee all at once, he felt so alert.

“I have to go,” he decided, pushing on Harry’s shoulder to let him out of the booth. “Get up.”

“But you haven’t even taken your shot yet-“ George attempted to argue.

“Yeah, sorry,” said Ron absently. He plunked a couple of Galleons onto the table. “I just - yeah - I’ve got to do something.”

They’d understand later, he thought as he dashed from the pub. Someday soon, if things went as he hoped, it would all make sense.

The house was quiet when he arrived home. He peeked in on the kids - Rose tucked up into her big-girl bed, the walls around her decorated in clashing shades of Cannons orange and Harpies green, and Hugo curled in a little ball in his cot - and then proceeded down the hall to his and Hermione’s bedroom. He was glad to see she was still awake, a paperback book open in front of her.

“Hi,” she greeted him, mild surprise in her voice as he bent down to kiss her. “You’re back early.”

“I know.” He perched at the foot of the bed. “I need to talk to you about something, it couldn’t really wait.”

She closed her book. “Oh, no, what?”

“It’s nothing bad - I don’t think, anyway. But that’s why I’ve got to talk to you-“

“You know,” she said, amused, “you used to get frustrated with me when I wouldn’t just come out and say something-“

“All right, all right.” He took a breath. “You know how, when I wanted to leave the Aurors, you told me that you wanted me to find something that was actually for me, not anyone else?”

“I’ve been saying that for eleven years, so, yes-“

“I think I’ve found it.” 

Her head tilted with intrigue. “What are you talking about? Are you going to work in the Leaky Cauldron?”

“No, I’m - I want to open a bakery.” 

He had never spoken the words aloud until just now, and he watched them register, bit by bit. 

“I’ve already got customers,” he went on, emboldened by the increasingly delighted expression on her face, “but there’s only so much I can do with our one little oven, and - and I already know how to run a business. I’ve already learned it all from George.”

“A bakery,” she repeated. A smile burst over her face. “Of course. Of course! I don’t know how we didn’t think of it before, it makes perfect sense.”

“And the premises next to George are opening up, nobody else wants them because they’re scared of him.”

“You are uniquely qualified to deal with George Weasley,” she agreed. 

“But it’s a big decision. We’ve got kids now, I can’t just go plunking down a ton of our money on a storefront.”

“That’s exactly why you should, actually. Because of them.” When he simply stared at her, she went on. “They need to see you going after what you want, it’s a good lesson for them.”

“They’re four and two, they won’t remember this. Plus, it-“ He hadn’t wanted to say this part aloud. “It feels like I’m leaving them, a bit.”

“And I’ve always told you. It’s okay to want something for yourself.”

He signed the lease two days later, excitement shaking in his stomach. There was some fixing up to do before he could open - he needed ovens and cooling cupboards and a display case - so the kids, to his mum’s unending delight, spent their days at the Burrow. But the soul-gripping guilt he had felt when Rose was born had gone, mostly. He wasn’t working just to earn a wage and support those he loved anymore. He was showing his children what it was to chase what you really wanted, and to never settle for anything less than happiness.

The Ministry had required him to complete a litany of forms in order to open an establishment that served food, and naturally they all required the name of his business. 

For hours, he stared at the blank space. He couldn’t think of anything clever or catchy the way the twins had done. He asked Hermione, who looked at him in exasperation and stated “it’s _yours_ , it’s up to you.”

She was right. It was. It was his, because it was the thing _he_ loved to do, the way _he_ could give to the world. _His_ dream.

So he called it, quite simply: Ron’s.

•••

“You,” said Hermione, walking toward him in heels and a shift dress, “are brilliant.”

Ron set another batch of lemon drizzle cake onto a floating tray and sent it soaring through the shop. Almost immediately, it was intercepted by Ginny, who passed it around to the rest of the family. “Not sure I agree, but it’s nice to hear.”

“It’s true,” she insisted, stepping around behind the display case to join him. “Look around you.”

Resting his forearms on the top of the display case, he surveyed the scene. He had not intended on any sort of grand opening party - he was only just getting started, so there was nothing yet to celebrate. But Hermione had coaxed him into it. Taking the first step had been the hardest part, but he’d done it. Whatever came next, he’d always have this. He’d always know that he went for it.

“It looks pretty good,” he conceded. 

“It looks incredible,” she stated firmly. “It’s going to be incredible.”

“You don’t know that yet. Maybe I’ll only get orders for hen dos.” He affected resignation. “We just don’t know.”

She laughed, kissed him, and took a pistachio-lemon macaron from a tray. “I really doubt that. I just want you to know how proud I am of you, because I really am.”

“You’re not even a little bit worried?”

“About what?”

He shrugged. “About if it tanks. Or if I’ll get bored in a few years and decide I want to work on a dragon reservation or something.”

“But you won’t.”

He didn’t suspect he would either, but he picked up a cinnamon swirl for himself and broke off a piece. “Yeah? How do you reckon?”

“Because it’s not about anyone else but you,” she told him simply. “It’s yours.”


End file.
